


The Scientist

by mothmanaintshit



Series: Strange Magic [2]
Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternative Universe - FBI, Angst, Crime Wars, Death, Drama, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fighting, Heavy Angst, Organized Crime, Revenge, Romance, Tragic Romance, Witness Protection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-05-11 03:49:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5612914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mothmanaintshit/pseuds/mothmanaintshit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marianne Fairfield is placed under a Witness Protection program a year after faking her own death to get away from her husband, Roland Knight, leader of The Knights - an organized body of criminals stationed in the USA. Marianne has been offered to reclaim the life that was stolen from her if she can testify against the very man who has haunted her dreams for years, that is, of course, if they can find him before he gets to her. She is placed under the care of one of the FBI agents who came and got her, a man who goes by the name Bog - one of the FBI's top agents. She is moved back into civilization, with Bog at her side, posing as a married couple in the suburbs as his team searches for Roland.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: I Set You Apart

**Author's Note:**

> This work totally was not influenced by 72+ hours of binge watching Criminal Minds. Nope.

The room was dim, blackness surrounded the women who sat, handcuffed and bloodied, at the table in the middle of the room. One light, one _oh_ -too-bright light, hung above the table, giving the woman a better view of just how much blood was on her hands—on her body.

_I couldn’t protect him…_

The woman stared blankly at her open palms, watching as the blood – already dried and cracking – chipped off. The room was silent but she knew. Oh, she knew just laid wait behind the door—behind the one-way mirror—she knew exactly who was behind them and she knew…

_I wasn’t fast enough…_

The woman looked up from her palms when she heard the door. Her eyes burned, both from unshed tears and the hell she just ran out of. Her entire body was covered in blood and soot, her bleached locks nearly matching her natural hair color, her chocolate eyes bloodshot – her left eye swollen shut –, her clothes tattered, ripped and scorched, skin dark but, thankfully, not burned… Not like him…

_I just wanted him safe…_

“You know why you’re here.” The statement of the century. _Ooh_ , she’s heard that statement at least two hundred times the past couple years. She looked back down at her palms as the agent took the seat across the table. She recognized the voice. _The voice_. The voice that got her into this mess in the first place, that gave her immunity, that bargained with her, to ‘ _save_ ’ her.

Stephanie Blake – Steph, Stuff, Sprint. The woman had too many nicknames, but it didn’t matter anymore. _She_ was the enemy now. _She_ started this hell. He would be alive and safe if she hadn’t—

“An agent is dead because of you.” Stuff’s rough voice broke through the woman’s thoughts. “A friend… who we both cared for.”

Stuff watched the woman carefully, but the woman didn’t even flinch at her words. And why would she? She’s seen worse than this—done worse than this. The woman is defined as a serial killer – having killed more than over fifty people – but that was her life, that was how she was raised, that was _her job_. She was handed a gun, told to protect or attack or defend, and that’s what she did. Her entire life was centered around being ‘A bosses’ wife’—but in this version, the wife didn’t stay home and turn the other cheek to her husband’s work. She was second-in-command, she was the beta, she could call the shots… but she never wanted that life. She was kidnapped from her family at the age of 6, was bought by The Knights and _became one_. She did it to survive, but when she saw the opportunity to run, she took it. She faked her death – which The Knights believed for over a year – but they found her three years ago, and so did the FBI. The FBI got their mere seconds before The Knights did, and the Agents brought her to this very room and bargained a deal. She remembers the three agents who held guns to her as she opened the door – one of them sitting in front of her at this moment, one of them dead, and the other was most likely standing behind the one-way mirror.

“I gave you a second chance—”

“You made a deal with the devil.” The woman finally spoke, fists clenched in rage. “I told you to give me to The Knight’s—none of this would be happening if _you had just **listened**_.”

“Ah,” Stuff frowned and leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “She speaks.”

“I’ll do more than speak when you let me out of these cuffs.” She spat, raising her arms.

“ _Marianne_ ,” Stuff chuckled her name, leaning forward and resting her arms on the table. “Now why would I do that?”

The woman, Marianne, let her arms fall back onto the table with a _clank_. Stuff’s lips twitched into a smirk as she watched Marianne sink down in the chair, deflating and utterly defeated.

“How are you feeling?” Stuff’s voice switched to sincerity, eyes shinning with worry; but Marianne knew this tactic all too well, thanks to _him_. Still… a wave of emotions hit her with Stuff’s words. The agent knew exactly how she was feeling; Marianne was never good at hiding emotions she wasn’t use to feeling. Marianne shut her eyes. She could always control anger— _always_ —but these other emotions? Sadness, loss, grief, remorse, regret… She’d never felt those things before—at least, not about _someone_.

_I shouldn’t have run off… I should have stayed and **just said it back** …_

Marianne let out a shaky breath and opened her eyes, meeting Stuff’s gaze. “I didn’t kill him—”

“Yes, you did.” Stuff opened the folder she threw on the table when she entered. Marianne hadn’t noticed it before. She pulled out pictures of the crime scene—their house—burned and breaking, blown up and destroyed. The door, where they hung decorations to blend in, where the gave candy to children in costumes, greeted their neighbors, yelled at door-to-door sales men to get of their lawn. The garage, where they had their first argument over the stupidest _littlest_ thing that made no sense, where they screamed out their feels and realized that _this wasn’t going to work anymore_. The dinning room where nothing ever happened because he didn’t eat and she couldn’t stand being normal. The living room where there was nothing to show for, empty, lifeless, with a burnt couch and charred chairs and a cracked and melted HD–TV hanging off the wall… And her room—their room for the last couple of days—where they just laid in bed naked all day, kissed, cuddled, made love, where they were finally themselves in front of each other – where they learned they could trust each other, where she learned she would only trust him this much… and where he died… where she failed to save him.

“You weren’t at the house, but he was. Convenient, no?” Stuff watched Marianne’s reaction to the photo’s, Marianne’s tears finally fell. Stuff felt her chest tighten as she watched Marianne’s bloodied hands rest over the pictures. 

“ _No_.” Marianne’s voice was sharp and raw. With one syllable, she made Stuff clamp her mouth shut, whatever the woman was about to say was lost. Marianne kept her eyes trained on the photo’s of their bedroom, letting the memories of that short time let her heart flutter and stomach twist. Marianne took a deep breath and looked back up at Stuff.

“I told you that you wouldn’t be able to protect me, Agent.” Marianne pushed the photo’s away. “No amount of FBI agents, state marshals, cops or troops can keep The Knight’s away from me—not while their leader is still out there.”

Stuff’s eyes trailed down to the photographs for the burnt house, her minds spinning. “Why did you leave the house without him?” 

“If I had known The Knights were there, I wouldn’t have left.” Marianne mumbled, her nails chipping off the blood on the back of her hand. “I… I could have saved him—” 

“Why weren’t you in the house, Marianne?” Stuff’s voice was hard once again, demanding answers.

“We fought.” Marianne narrowed her eyes at Stuff. “I need space and being in that house didn’t give me the space I needed—”

“You should have let him follow you—”

“He didn’t _need_ my permission to tail me! He understood I needed to _breathe_ —It was his own _damn_ choice not to—” The door suddenly opened behind Stuff, a man Marianne had seen a few times around the department looked at Stuff before nodding to her and leaving. Stuff sighed and stood, gathering the papers back in the folder before picking it up. Marianne watched Stuff head to the door with weary eyes. There was something… off. Wrong. Something wasn’t right.

“Wait,” Marianne coughed out, sitting up straighter as Stuff opened the door, “Did he… Last I heard he was alive but—his injuries… The paramedic’s said there was a slim chance he—”

“Are you asking if he’s alive?” Stuff looked over her shoulder, but not at Marianne. 

“I am.” Marianne spoke, barely above a whisper. She was terrified to know the truth. Maybe it was just better to assume it was dead—she shouldn’t have asked. “I—” 

“What if he is dead?” Stuff shut the door, turning completely towards Marianne. “What would you do?”

“You know _exactly_ what I **_will_** do, Stephanie.” Marianne stared back with cold eyes—a hidden meaning only she, Stuff and her team knew. Marianne _was_ a killer, after all. She didn’t like doing it, but if Roland took away the one thing she loves most in this world—

Marianne felt her body turn cold as Stuff looked down, holding the folder tightly at her side.

_No, no. Please, no…_

“I’m sorry.” Stuff turned back towards the door and left, leaving Marianne alone in the cold, dark, lonely room.


	2. Take Me Back to The Start (Part One)

** _Three Years Ago_ **

_“Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, my little fairy—”_

_“Mum!” 6-year-old Marianne laughed, looking up over her shoulder at her mom as the older woman set down a sugar-filled ice cream cake in front of the her._

_“Well you are!” Her father commented from behind the video camera. “Our sweet, little—”_

_“I’m not sweet!” Marianne hissed, raising her hands up as claws, but her face betrayed her—smiling, shining and bright, full of life and happiness—, “I am **evil** incarnated! I am—”_

_“Can we eat the cake already?” Marianne’s sister, 5-year-old Dawn, jumped onto the chair next to Marianne and eyed the cake hungrily. “I’m **dying** here!”_

_“Soon, sweetheart.” Their mother laughed, kissing the top of Dawn’s head before going to Marianne’s other side and sitting in that chair. “What are you going to wish for, Marianne?”_

_Marianne pursed her lips and tilted her head to the side before her lips pulled into a big grin. “I know.” She blew out her candles as her father placed the camera perfectly to capture them all as he walked behind the three._

_“What did you wish for?” Dawn mumbled next to her._

_“I can’t tell you!” Marianne laughed, smiling at her younger sister. “If I told you, it won’t come true!”_

_“That’s right!” Her father placed a hand on Dawn’s shoulder and squeezed it. Marianne mother laughed, leaning down and pressing her lips at the top of Marianne’s head. “You know the rules, Dawn.”_

_“Can we eat it? I don’t know how much longer I can take staring at it!” Dawn sighed, fingers gripping the edge of the table as she bounced in her seat._

_“Alright, alright.” Their mother laughed, pulling out the candles. Their father wrapped his arms around the children and kissed each of their heads._

_“Happy birthday, my sweet. I love you—”_

Marianne pressed pause on the remote, teary-eyes staring at her family… her old family… her dead family… This was her last birthday with them—28 years ago—before she was kidnapped. She didn’t remember her kidnappers—she never saw their faces—but she remembers who _saved_ her from them. The Knights. Marianne cringed at the thought of them. They were just as bad as her kidnappers. 

 _No_ , Marianne grabbed the remote,  _They are much, much worse_.

Marianne started rewinding the tape, picking up her beer she had set down on the coffee table in front of her leather couch before pulling her legs to her side and pulling the blanket over her form. The tape stalled before the screen went black, then the voices came up again.

Marianne laid on her side, one arm curling under the pillow she laid her head on while the other leaned on the beer bottle she placed on the ground. She brought the beer to her lips, taking a few sips before setting it back down on the ground.

_Happy birthday to you._

She looked for her family once she was free, nearly a year ago; but her family was happy—they moved on. Dawn was married, had two children. Her father and mother were retired, living happily in the suburb area of New York.

_Happy birthday to you._

She had spoken to them—the worse decision she could have made—about their lost daughter, posing as a possible lead as to where her daughter was… They didn’t even recognize her. But, how would they? Last time they saw her she was six—she wasn’t six anymore, she never would look that innocent and small and _pure_ ever again; not with the shit she’d done, shit she’d been through…

_Happy birthday, my little fairy._

“Happy birthday to me.” Marianne turned her head into the pillow, letting her tears get soaked up by the fabric.

* * *

 

_ **The Next Morning** _

Marianne fell asleep on the couch, and in the morning she didn’t much care for getting up. She didn’t have to, it was a Saturday, she didn’t have any commissions that needed work today, her funds were fine and she was still invisible. Instead, she drank and only got up when she needed another beer. Marianne could always handle her liquor—not that beer ever did much for her—but by time she downed her last one, she was barely feeling buzzed. The house was dark, even though it was only 2 pm, rain fell on the house, curtains were closed, lights were out, and Marianne just laid on the couch, listening to the calm before the storm that was about to knock on her front door.

Marianne pushed herself into a sitting position when she heard the knock. She looked over the back of her couch towards the door and frowned, her brows furrowing as she saw two figures through the disfigured glass. Marianne pulled out her phone, accessing the hidden camera she had on the front porch. One was a woman, the other a man. The woman was at least Marianne’s height, if not a bit taller, stocky, buff, strong looking. Her black hair was just past her shoulders, thin and wavy. She wore sunglasses even though there was no sun shining today. The man was tall, at least six feet nine inches, buff, bald and reminding her too much of Bruce Willis. He didn’t wear glasses and his green eyes were staring _right at the camera_.

“Shit.” Marianne ran a hand through her disheveled hair before kicking the blanket off and jumping over the back of the couch. She leaned over the couch again, pulling out the gun she had hidden between the sheets and moved towards the door. She hid the gun behind herself as she placed her hand on the handle.

“FBI.” The woman spoke once Marianne stood on the other side of the door. “We’d like to speak to you concerning a friend of yours.”

Marianne turned her head towards the kitchen when she heard a small _clank_ against the backdoor. Marianne bit her lip and pulled the back of her shirt up, hiding the gun in her pants before fixing her shirt and opening the door.

“A friend?” Marianne took a step back as she opened the door, leaning her side against it as the two held up their badges. Marianne looked at their credentials, she knew how to spot fake badges a mile away—and these were not fake. The woman’s name was Stephanie Blake, the man was Brutus Kyle.

“Yes. A Mister Knight?” They stuffed their badges away. “Specifically, Roland Knight.”

Marianne knew the second she saw Brutus’ hand rest on his gun that she was not going to be getting away easily. Marianne’s eyes narrowed, the hand she had hidden behind the door already reaching for the gun hidden behind her. Marianne felt the barrel of a gun press between her shoulder blades, the smell of musk and roses suddenly made her head swim and a thick, Scottish voice hissed behind her. 

“Ah wouldn’t du’that if Ah were ye.”

Marianne narrowed her eyes at Stephanie and Brutus as she let go of her gun and raised her hands slowly. As soon as she felt the gun pulled from her pants, she kicked the door closed and twisted the deadbolt before she aimed a reverse roundhouse kick towards the man behind her. She didn’t realize exactly how tall this man was—taller than Brutus by over a foot—so her kick hit his bicep and made him stagger, dropping both their weapons before she threw an open handed hook against the left side of his head. He caught her wrist before her attack connected and twisted her, pushing her down to the ground before straddling her. Marianne’s breath came out in huffs as she struggled against the man, hissing curses at him as he fumbled pulling his cuffs out.

“ _Stop movin’_.” He jerked her arm, causing her rage to intensify. Marianne growled and twisted around enough to pull her other arm out from under herself, sending a straight strike to the man’s nose. He grunted as he fell back, the cuffs falling from his hands as he clutched his broken nose. Marianne scrabbled up, grabbing one of the guns on the ground before jumping over the couch and heading for the backdoor. Marianne sprinted out the back, jumping over the few lawn ornaments that came with the house, before being tackled a few feet from the fence. Marianne put up a good fight, but the second she saw Brutus with his gun Stephanie successfully flipped her over and the gun she held was pulled from her grasp.

“Get off me!” She yelled, struggling against Stephanie’s deadweight. “You can’t do this!” 

“We just wanted to talk, Marianne!” Stephanie hissed in her ear as she cuffed Marianne’s wrists. “Now you’ve forced my hand—”

“Fuck your hand, and _fuck you_!” Marianne cursed as Stephanie pushed herself off of Marianne. Marianne twisted around into a sitting position and kicked herself back until she hit the fence. Brutus stood next to Stephanie, his gun trained on Marianne, as the man Marianne had beaten up walked up behind them. Blood has stopped falling from his nose, but most of the bottom half of his face was covered in it. He had a gun—from the looks of it, it was Marianne’s—aimed at her as well. Stephanie blew some hair from her face before pushing it behind her ear. She looked over at Bog and frowned.

“You alr—”

“Fine.” He grumbled, glaring down at Marianne. “Ye sure this’s her?”

Stephanie nodded and looked back at Marianne, “Yes. This is her.”

Marianne glared, “Who am I then, Agent Blake?”

“Marianne Fairfield.” Stephanie took a step towards Marianne and kneeled in front of her, “Married to Roland Knight since she was fifteen, killed sixty-six people—thirty-five male, thirty-one female—, second-in-command of The Knights, kidnapped at the age of six and forced—”

“Please, shut up.” Marianne groaned, letting her head fall back against the fence. “Just… What do you want? I’m not with The Knights anymore—They think I’m dead.”

“Roland Knight,” The man she fought with spoke, “He killed someone—”

“He kills lots of unlucky bastards.” Marianne commented dryly, looking at him through narrowed eyes. “What’s so important about this one?” 

“He was my fiancé.” Stephanie sighed, standing up and crossing her arms. Marianne duck her head, ignore the small ping of guilt she felt pull at her heart as she replied.

“He was close to finding Roland?”

“Extremely.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Marianne looked back up at Stephanie. “I… know what that’s like.”

“We need your help, Marian—”

“We shouldn’t be doin' this here.” The man commented behind Stephanie, moving to his gun lying on the damp ground a few feet away. He picked it up and holstered it as Stephanie agreed. She moved over to Marianne and pulled the woman on her feet. “We’ll talk about your deal when we get back to the Bureau.”


	3. Tell Me Your Secrets (Part One)

_ Federal Bureau of Investigation _

Marianne sat, cuffed and watched, in the middle of an interrogation room. The room was lit well enough, the one-way mirror stationed in front of where she sat, giving the agents a clear view of Marianne—not that the video camera that was practically mushed against her face wasn’t giving them a clear enough view of the woman already.

“Why di’thay move the cam so bloody close?” Bog stood next to Steph, Brutus on the other side of her, as they watched Marianne from behind the one-way mirror. Marianne hadn’t been any trouble since being brought in—shockingly enough. After Marianne’s successful attempt at breaking his nose—she didn’t move it out of position, which he thanks the gods for—, he didn’t expect her to be so calm with coming in and listening to their proposition. Though, he figured she knew if she didn’t listen—and in the end agree to said terms—she would be tried with all her known crimes; and would be given the death penalty. As Bog watched Marianne, he couldn’t help but wonder why she didn’t look worried, scared, cornered… She was acting like he’d never seen someone act in an interrogation room—at least someone who wasn’t an over-confident, ego-maniac toadstool.

“Who’s gonna go in?” Brutus grunted beside Steph, arms crossed. They had originally wanted Thane—Steph’s fiancé—to do the interrogation. He was, in fact, the one to find Marianne, but he found an even more promising connection to Roland that wouldn’t put Marianne through worse. They all knew what she’d been through; Bog’s father was on Marianne’s kidnapping case, one of his first cases with the Bureau. Bog was only ten when Marianne was taken from her family. He remembered hearing his fathers tired voice every night over the phone as he told him he loves him and that he’d be home soon. Marianne wasn’t a threat to society, as some of his team members would believe. She was a child forced to grow up too quickly and learn to survive; once she faked her death—a death he would sooner or later need to know how she had faked so successfully—none of her unique killings were found around the area she lived. She may be a serial killer, but she wasn’t a psychopath. She didn’t do what she’d done because she got a high off the kill, or because she enjoyed it. From what little Bog personally knew if Marianne, it was obvious enough that she didn’t want to kill. She could have killed him when she picked up his gun, could have easily killed all three of them with how powerful she really was; but she ran.

She didn’t want that life anymore.

“Ah’ll do it.” Bog said looking down at Steph. Steph raised a brow at him, knowing full well how bad he was at interrogation; but this wasn’t an interrogation, it was a plea… Bog, shockingly enough, was good at convincing people—usually with his fists. Steph’s lips thinned as she looked back at Marianne before her head bobbed in a short nod. Steph cocked her hip out, placing a hand on her waist while her other hand grabbed the over-stuffed folder on the table in front of them. She slapped the folder against his chest and nodded towards the door. Bog placed his hand over the folder as Steph pulled her hand back. 

“Tactical opposi—”

“ _Talkin’_.” Bog said, walking backwards towards the door with a small smirk on his face. He reached for the handle and kicked the door open, “Tough Girl knows how ta _talk_.” He walked out before Steph could oppose him. Steph let out a long sigh, running a hand through her hair before turning back to the one-way mirror as Bog entered the room.

“Think he’ll get her to listen?” Brutus asked, staring blankly through the glass.

“He better.” Steph crossed her arms and watched as Bog set the folder down on the table. Marianne sat straighter once Bog sat down, fingers twitching against the metal table as she watched him with minor worry.

“I, uh…” Marianne cleared her throat and motioned to her own nose. “Are you…?”

“Worried, Tough Girl?” He smirked, opening the folder.

“Tough… Tough Girl?” Marianne furrowed her brows and stared down at her clenched fists as she spoke the nickname. She’d never been given a nickname before—pet names, _sure_ ; she has at least fifty of them, all from Roland. But a _nickname_? Marianne’s mouth opened and closed a few times as she tried to speak. She stuttered a bit, raising her chained arms to let her hands run through her hair before falling back down on the metal table with a loud _clank_.

“Wh—what—you—I—um,” Marianne coughed, completely stunned at herself for loosing her composure over something so _utterly stupid_ as a nickname. “Your—”

“Ah’m _Agent_.” He spoke, looking back down at the opened folder.

“ _Agent_? _Just_ Agent?” Marianne quickly composed herself, shaking off _whatever_ feeling she just felt. She wasn’t good with feelings; she would rather remain as zombie-like as she could be.

“Fer now,” he replied, pulling out a sheet of paper hidden among the folder, “ye’ll know the res’of me name once ye agree ta help me.”

“And if I don’t agree?” Marianne looked down at the paper as Bog twisted it and slide it towards her.

“Then ye don’get ah name,” Bog leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, “ _and_ ye get prison time. Tha’are still sixty-six cold-case murders tha’need ta be closed.”

Marianne hummed as she read over the paper. This one sheet of paper decided her fate—and by how many holes were in _this_ draft of plans, Roland would find them before she found him.

“Your teams got balls, I’ll give you that,” Marianne shook her head and snorted, “but what makes you think you can even find Roland? With this plan, hell, you won’t be finding anybody— _definitely_ not Roland, if he’s learned anything I taught him.”

“Wha’s wrong with the plan?” Bog pulled the paper back, brows knitted together in confusion as he reread the deal.

Marianne sighed and raised her cuffed wrists against, ruffling her hair before smoothing it back, “Roland isn’t smart. I was always the one looking for holes in his contracts, testing new recruits, going on stake-outs and murder runs… I did _everything_ … If he’s learned anything from me, it’s to know that the Feds _play by the rules_ —”

“We can’nah go off script jus’fer yer needs—”

“ _If_ you want to catch Roland, you’ll need a better plan than follow the bread crumbs… Look where that’s gotten you.” Marianne looked towards the one-way mirror. “And I’m not here for _my_ needs, Agent. I’m here for _yours_.”

Bog looked over his shoulder towards the one-way mirror, silently wishing he could see his team—see Steph. She was the one who needed Marianne, who needed all of this. If it was someone else—someone they all hadn’t known, hadn’t _loved_ —that Roland had murdered, they wouldn’t be here. Marianne would be back in her home, safe from whatever hell they might have just unleashed for her and her possible free future, and they would be working on any other case besides The Knights. The Knights were barely a major threat since Marianne faked her death, it was obvious she was the brains of the organization. They were never a real threat on security until Roland’s father passed and he—and 19-year-old Marianne—took over the organization. Bog looked back at Marianne. 

“We brought ye here ta make ah deal with you… Ye will be pardoned from all yer crimes if, an’ _only_ if, you help us find Roland an’—”

“Just tell me your name,” Marianne nodded, extending her right hand out, “and we have a deal.”

“King,” Bog shook her hand, “Bog King.” 

“Well, _Bog King_ ,” Marianne smirked and relaxed against her chair, “let’s get to business, shall we?”


	4. Running in Circles (Part One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [unedited. will edit grammar and such later.]

**_ Three Months Later _ **

**_[Warehouse]_**

_Crack—_

_Smack—_

_**Bang** —_

Marianne grunted as she fell back against the cement ground. Everything hurt, everything spun—red. Red clouded her vision, mixed with shades of gray and blurry visions of the triplets standing around her. Marianne rolled onto her shoulder and curled up—her arms bound behind her, ankles and thighs tied with rope that was burning her skin the more she struggled. She heard laughing— _those fuckers are **laughing** at her_ —as she struggled to breathe.

 _Breathe._

“I can’t believe this is the _legendary_ Marianne Fairfield. The maiden who caught our beloved leader’s attention—”

“Some legend.” One of the triplets scoffed, twirling the switchblade between his fingers. “Easiest bitch we’ve ever caught.” 

 _Rory_ , Marianne’s memory started to kick in. She’d only met the triplets twice before faking her death. Rory, she remembered, was the one who had a thing for knives—liked to torture the people Roland sent him to ‘take care’ of. The other two were Aiden and Dominic—she couldn’t tell which was which. They weren’t as memorable as Rory.

“What does Roland even see in her?” Aiden spoke, his arms crossed at he watched Marianne suspiciously. Marianne groaned at the mention of him, rolling onto her back to stare up at the triplets that stood around her. Their focus shifted back to her, and Rory knelt down next to her to lightly tease her exposed abdomen with his knife. Marianne narrowed her eyes up at him, lips pulling together in a thin line as the man smirked down at her.

“I say,” he stood back up, smirking over at his brothers as he twirled the switchblade once again, “we have a bit of _fun_ before Roland arrives—”

“No, Rory—come on.” Aiden spoke again, waving his brothers offer away and turning to the side as he crossed his arms again. “We did what he wanted: we got her. Why—”

“He’ll kill you.” Marianne said between coughs as she pushed herself up in to a sitting position. Marianne turned her head to the side, spitting out some blood before looking back at the triplets. “He’s already going to be angered; you _stripped_ me. Only _he’s_ allowed to look at me like this. I don’t know if you were around when Benjamin was still alive, but Roland… _dismembered_ him for peaking.”

“He likes us better than Benjamin—”

“You sure about that, Pretty Boy?” Marianne tilted her head at the triple that spoke—one that was now pulling a gun from it’s hiding place under his shirt. _Dominic_. “Why don’t you dig up Benjamin and ask him about Charles.” 

“What?” _Aiden_.

“And then you can dig up Charles and ask about Vincent—”

“She’s lying—” _Dominic_.

“Before Vincent was… Victor… no—James—”

“ _Shut_ **_up_**!” Rory kicked her across the face. Marianne coughed and spit out more blood as she tumbled a few feet away from them. 

“Rory!” Aiden cursed at his brother, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him away from Marianne. Aiden looked down at Marianne before looking back at his brother and whispering, “She’s right about Roland being pissed off already. He wanted her unharmed—”

“Fu… ck… y… ou…” Marianne leaned her forehead against the cement as blood dripped from her mouth. “Yo… You’re… already de… dead.” Marianne moved her head to look at the triplets, a bloody smirk slowly forming on her lips as their faces twisted in rage and confusion.

“What was that, _tough girl_?” Rory hissed, fingers gripping the switchblade tightly. Marianne’s smirk widened, and a dark, sick sounding chuckle escaped through her lips.

“You…” Marianne licked her lips and met Rory’s glare, “are _so_ dead.”

Rory moved on top of Marianne, kicking her onto her back and straddling her—pressing the switchblade against her neck, “I wouldn’t use that tone with _us_ , Marianne—” Two gunshots sounded in the warehouse and the two brothers behind Rory went down. Marianne smirked—lips and teeth bloody and her expression **_oh_** _so pleased_ —as Rory’s face contorted in anger. 

“Drop yer weapon. _Now_.” Bog appeared behind Rory, Steph and Brutus—and a few SWAT team members—on either side of him, all having their guns trained on Rory. Brutus and Steph had kicked the weapons away from Aiden and Dominic, Brutus using the walkie-talkie strapped to his bulletproof vest to call for an ambulance. Rory’s blade shook against her neck, his anger shaking his entire body as he watched Marianne’s smug expression.

“What… was that again, _pretty boy_?” Marianne took a shaky breath, “Not to… use a _tone_?”

“Drop your weapon and place your hands behind your head.” Steph’s voice sounded loudly. 

Rory hiss, “He will find you.”

“I hope— _ah_ … hope so.” Marianne replied as Rory removed the blade from her throat, causing a small knick against her skin with how Rory moved the blade. “I still have to… to give him my anniversary gift.”

* * *

 

**_ One Hour Later _ **

**_ [Hospital]_ **

“Ye sure yer—”

“Yes.”

“But ye were bleeding—”

“Which is why I’m in this hospital bed.”

“But—”

“ _Bog_.” Marianne turned her head on the pillow to look at Bog. Marianne was admitted into the hospital once the fiasco at the warehouse ended. Steph and the others were taking care of Rory while Bog choose to stay with Marianne for the night. She had a concussion and a few cracked ribs, but no internal bleeding and nothing that needed the doctor’s immediate attention. Marianne’s face was colored different shades of purple, a few stiches on her arm and bandages covering her stomach and chest; an IV drip was connected to the back of Marianne’s hand. The only bad thing about this hospital visit was no morphine. With Marianne’s concussion, she couldn’t take any strong pain medication. She couldn’t take any medication, which only made Bog’s constant hovering more annoying. Marianne wasn’t use to this; though, deep, deep down in the back of her mind, Marianne had always craved being worried over like this.

“I’m _fine_.”

“Ye got hurt—”

“We planned it out this way, Bog.” Marianne shrugged and looked back up at the ceiling, waving her arm dismissively.

“But nah _you_ gettin’ hurt.” Bog’s voice cracked as he leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees and running his hands over his hair. Marianne looked at Bog from the corner of her eye, both curious and confused as why her wellbeing actually mattered. She was nothing to him, should be nothing to him—except a pawn in his teams plan for revenge. She told them from the beginning that she would get hurt _— “You don’t mess with Roland Knight and not expect to get a few injuries… or end up dead.” She said when they were finalizing their plans to find Roland; she decided to use herself as bait._ — and they seemed fine with it. They were confident in their abilities to get to her before anything bad happened, and they did. Marianne would have suffered worse if she wasn’t working with the FBI… Though, Roland probably wouldn’t know where she was either if it wasn’t for them.

“We planned that this might happen.” Marianne said quietly, looking back up at the ceiling. “You have your lead now—and knowing Rory, he will talk… sooner or later. _And_ the warehouse, Roland unknowingly left a breadcrumb.”

Bog let out a long sigh and looked at Marianne, his hands resting on his neck, “Marianne—”

“I trusted you, Bog.” Marianne turned her head to looked at him, her lips pulled into a small smile, her eyes serious. “I… I _do_ trust you.”


	5. Nobody Said It Was Easy (Part One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am BACK :DDDD
> 
> i am so so soooo sorry it has taken me forever to get back into the Strange Magic... Magic? I still have so many idea's for this fic (and, thankfully, i have a lot of them written down already).

** One Month Later **

         **[Aloft Hotel]  
        ** **[Brooklyn, New York]**

Marianne crossed her arms, glaring down at the bullet proof vest Bog held out to her. Her gaze flickered between the vest and Bog, one hand gesturing to the vest, aghast, while the other twitched against her bruised ribs. Since the altercation with the triplets, Marianne had run into more trouble — trouble the Agents didn’t know of. Bruised ribs, hidden stitches, bruised jaw with caked on make-up. Stuff and Brutus didn’t seem to take notice. She silently wondered if Bog noticed — given that he had practically been glued to her hip for the past few months — but he never seemed to comment, just look at her with an unreadable gaze when he thought she wasn’t looking. If he did know and didn’t comment, she was glad.

“The _fuck_ is this?” She hissed, using both her hands to gesture to the safety garment he presented her with.

“ _This_ ,” Bog waved the vest in the air between them, “is ma only term. Ye won’be taggin’ along on this run unless—”

“I am not wearing a vest.” Marianne hissed, pushing the vest towards Bog as she turned away from him. She walked over to the window that overlooked the crowded streets of Brooklyn. She and the others flew here overnight; Rory leading them to the woman who owned the warehouse, Ms. Grace Green, a close, personal friend of the Knight himself. 

“Ah’m nah havin’ a repeat of last time.” Marianne’s eyes flickered to Bog’s reflection in the window. His eyes were hard, tone stern and commanding. His posture was stiff, one hand shoved into his pocket while the other clasped around the shoulder pad of the vest.

“Yer mah responsibility,” Bog walked to her until he stood behind her, “so, yer goin’ ta put this on or else yer stayin’ here.”

“Roland could be there!” Marianne twisted around to face him, shoulders hunched and fists clenched. Her eyes narrowed as Bog brought up the vest, obstructing her view of him. She snarled, “You can’t keep me from him!”

“Ah can and Ah bloody will, _Tough. Girl_.” Bog snarled back, throwing the vest on the chair to their right that leaned against the wall. “The _git_ knows we’re here— he knows _yer_ here, Mari.” 

Marianne’s hardened gaze softened, taking a step back to straighten up before blinking at Bog.

_Mari… that’s… that’s **new**._

She stared up at him, arms limp at her sides as she watched him moved to her side and pick up the vest.

“Ah made a promise to ye,” Bog used a tone she had only heard once before, back in that hospital bed nearly a month ago, when he was acting like he cared about her, “an’ Ah don’ break ma promises.”

Marianne looked down at the vest as he offered it once again, her mind racing at the thought that he cared about her — that he could _possibly_ even… 

Her eyes met his and she felt like she was looking at him in a new light. Those clear blue eyes shone with such fiery intensity, such determination and worry — _about her_ — as he stared down at her. He suddenly seemed so much taller and she felt so much smaller, vulnerable and fragile, than ever before.

She didn’t like this feeling.

She quickly grabbed the vest, turning from him and walking a few strides away as she undid one Velcro shoulder strap and body strap.

“Do I get a gun this time?” Marianne asked as she shoved one arm through the vest before moving it to for comfortable atop her body. She redid the Velcro against her waist as Bog helped with the shoulder.

“No.”

Marianne gaped up at him, “Ah, come on! I thought you _didn’t_ want another repeat like last time.”

“I’m legally not allowed to give you a gun, Marianne.” Bog’s lips twitched into a smirk as he watched Marinette fumble with the vest. She really didn’t like this stupid vest.

“Yes, because all of these is _oh-so-legal_ to begin with, Mr. King.” Marianne quipped back, smirking over her shoulder as Bog snorted at the use of his last name. She focused back on the vest, shimmying around it until it settled perfectly against her form. 

“I feel…” Marianne pursed her lips, looking towards the mirror in the far corner of the hotel room before walking towards it. She took in her appearance, mainly the glaring white bold text of ‘FBI’ printed over her right breast. She never needed a vest before, not even when killing a man who used two guns to try and slow her – it didn’t and he ended up dying because Roland demanded so…

But it wasn’t the vest, or the color of the text, or how her heart contracted in her chest when she got a glimpse of Bog’s wide eyes in the mirror — _did he see it too?_

This felt… _right_.

She was finally doing something right, serving justice to the unjust better than before, and she could see the change in herself — in her reflection.

Her eyes shined — the dull, lifeless brown she had grown into nearly faded for playfulness and wonder. Her hair held more volume — now back to its original color, chestnut brown with blond highlights in certain light, healthy and growing, curling at the edges. Her skin tanned — no longer sickly pale, the scars that people could have spotted a mile away faded to just a small blemish. Her presence — what made Marianne _Marianne_ — was radiant, glowing in a world full of darkness and hatred, a light that could burn anyone who strayed too close.

She didn’t remember ever looking so _okay_.

“I feel…” A smile broke Marianne usual thin grimace, laughing as she continued her sentence while looking at Bog through the mirror. “I feel _real_.”

Marianne ignored the way her stomach flipped when Bog turned his head away to hide a smug grin.

* * *

 

** Two Hours Later **

** [Ms. Grace Green’s Main Warehouse]**   
** [Brooklyn, New York]**

“He’s here… or _was_ here.” Marianne breathed as she kneeled next to Lisa, a S.W.A.T. team sniper, atop a building across the yard from Ms. Green’s main warehouse. Her eyes caught the neon green tinted cloth stuck between one of the windows on the roof (a calling card of sorts), a still dripping graffiti art of The Knight’s sign — one that was left for other Knight members, ones that defected or snitched, and one that Marianne was sure the FBI didn’t know about. 

_We’re coming for you._

“ _Ye see him?_ ” Bog asked quickly over the comm.

“No, but I already see a couple things he left as presents…” Marianne frowned, looking over at Lisa. Lisa fidgeted against the concrete roof, her S.W.A.T. goggles reflecting against the moonlight as Marianne’s stomach sank. “…for _me_.”

Lisa glanced at Marianne from the corner of her eyes before looking back through her scoop. Marianne swallowed, eyes trailing over Lisa’s form and seeing an all-too familiar tattoo sticking out from the edge of her hairline. Marianne looked over the rest of the buildings, none of the other snipers or S.W.A.T. members looking their way.

“ _Think he’ll make an appearance?_ ” Stuff asked through the comm, static breaking her voice up. Marianne shut her eyes when she felt the barrel of a gun press on the back of her head.

“Hello again, _tough girl_.” Rory’s twisted voice snickered behind her. “Let’s take a walk, shall we?”


	6. Come Back and Haunt Me (Part One)

** 12:03 AM **

** [Ms. Green’s Warehouse]**

** [Brooklyn, New York]**

“ _Think he’ll make an appearance?_ ” Stuff voice sounded over the comm, static sounding after every word. Bog frowned, eyes trained on the contents in the warehouse and he continued to walk further in. His gun was pointed out as he took slow, cautious steps. 

“We have what he wants,” Bog mumbled, leaning his back against a wall before turning to a few S.W.A.T members trailing behind him, “and if Roland is anything like Mari said—”

“— _To…gh… irl_ —”

“—then he won’t leave without her.”

“ _Mari?_ ” Stuff snickered. “ _That’s **cute** , Bog_.”

Bog’s lips thinned before he glanced around the corner. He quickly ducked back behind the wall when he caught the eye of a mop of blonde hair. He motioned towards the SWAT team that the target was in sight. As he waited for them to get prepared, he quickly whispered to the others that he found Roland.

“ _Brutus is heading your_ —”

**_Bang!_ **

“— _Shots fired! Shots fired!_ ”

Bog motioned for the SWAT team to follow his lead, quickly ducking out of cover and zeroing in on Roland. He pointed his gun towards the man hidden behind a dozen crates as he moved around them to—

Bog grimace, taking in the sight of a corpse manipulated to look like Roland. His gun stayed trained on the corpse as the motioned for the other to look around and stay on guard. Two SWAT members stayed behind, watching his back, as he examined to corpse.

Bog assumed this was Grace Green. Her hair styled and dyed to mirror Roland’s, her body impaled on a metal beam to keep her in an upright position, another beam impaled under her collarbone, the other end forced under her jaw to keep her head upright.

“ _—Bog!_ ” Stuff’s voice broke through the radio silence, her voice throaty and worn. A few gunshots could be heard from her end, causing Bog’s eye to twitch from the loud noises.

“Yeah?” Bog frowned, taking a few steps away from Ms. Green. He’d seen some pretty fucked up things during his time as an Agent, but this…

Bog felt sick; his mind twisting around that Marianne could end up like this — _a display_ — for Roland’s enjoyment. Bog could see the smugness with every slash, hear cynical laughter with every stab, see Roland’s menacing green eyes reflecting in Ms. Green’s vacant ones. He looked down at the ground, seeing he had stepped in her blood when he was closer. He saw his boot prints and another pair, smaller than his and with designer soles, heading out towards the side door.

The door was still open, swinging in the wind as he jogged over to it. He was on the second floor of the warehouse. He stopped out on the roof, gun pointed in front of him as he looked around. He walked towards the middle of the roof, peeking around every corner before moving forward. The bloody shoe prints were scarce, slowly dwindling until it lead Bog to the abandoned shoes. He cursed, shoving his weapon in its holster before starting to run back to the roof exit.

“Ah,” Bog stopped in his tracks as a woman stood on one of the large air-conditioning structures before him, twirling a knife between her fingers, “the man of the hour.” 

Bog took a step back as the woman moved forward.

“Boggart King,” the woman jumped from the structure, landing silently in front of the agent and taking a bow, “a _pleasure_.”

Bog’s hand was already on his weapon, other arm held up in a defensive manner as he watched his attacker with narrow eyes. The woman stood upright, a smile that send chills down Bog’s spine on her lips, showing off her yellow teeth. 

“Names Alice Day,” she threw the knife in the air, quickly cracking her finger and neck before she caught it in her other hand. She cocked her hip, her hand resting atop it as she pointed the knife towards Bog, “And Roland is sick of you _sooooo_ … You need to _disappear_.”

Bog furrowed his brows, taking in Alice’s appearance. She couldn’t have been more than seventeen. Her hair was tightly curled, dull brown and sticking out every which way. Her skin was tan, but paler than it should have been. Her green eyes nearly swallowed whole from her large, dilated pupils. It reminded him of Marianne when he first meet her, her entire being dulled and darkened to blend in and hide, now she had broken from Roland’s chains and grew into herself.

“This tha best yer boss can do?” Bog carefully watched Alice as she swayed from foot to foot.

Alice’s smile grew into a smug smirk, “He’s doing better than _you_ at this point… tall, dark and _handsome_.” She finished the sentence off with a wink. Bog snarled, quickly taking out his gun and pointing it towards Alice. 

“Bringing a gun to a knife fight?” She pouted and sighed. “That isn’t fair.” 

“Ah dun’ play fair.” He snarled, taking the shot. Alice slid to her left, pushing off of the air vent as she ran towards Bog. She kicked her leg up, pressing it against Bog’s side and kicking him to the ground. His gun fell from his hand as his shoulder collided with the ground. He grabbed Alice’s foot when she stomped towards his gut. He smirked at her appalled expression before he pushed her away. He stood quickly, ducking as she stabbed toward his shoulder. 

“You think you’re special, don’t you?” Alice bated as her and Bog fought. Bog grabbed her arm, pulling her arm over his back and shoulder and flipping her on her back. Alice grunted, knife clattered against the ground before she rolled to her side as Bog’s foot slammed down on the ground.

“Think you can actually… actually _save_ Marianne from him?” Alice leapt up, pouncing on Bog and taking them both to the ground.

“You couldn’t save your own fiancée,” Alice cackled, bringing her fist down on Bog’s cheek. “How do you expect to save Marianne if you couldn’t even protect— _Ahck_!”

Bog elbowed Alice in the face, kicking her off him and pushing himself backwards until his back hit the air-conditioning structure. He pulled himself up, sliding back down as Alice threw a punch toward him. Her hand connected with the structure, causing her to shriek a curse and stumbled backwards as she cradled her hand. 

“Mother fuck _— archh_!” Bog twisted, sending a roundhouse kick at Alice. It connected with the side of her head, making her twist before her chin slam against the air vent and causing her to fall into her back unconscious. Bog panted, resting his palms against his knees as he leaned forward. Sweat fell from his brow as he dipped his head forward and fell to his knees. His chest and shoulders rose with every breath, his hand reaching out and clamping onto his gun before holstering it. He spared Alice another glance before pushing himself up.

More shots were fired towards the front of the warehouse.

He jogged towards the front of the warehouse from the roof, hearing bullets ricochet against metal and brick before his eyes caught the scene before him. Stuff, Brutus, a few other members of their team and SWAT members fought against Roland’s men. He saw Stuff tackled Brutus to the ground behind a nearby SUV.

“ _Th… ha—… her!_ ” Stuff’s voice broke through the interference. Bog looked around the nearby buildings, his mind turned around. He couldn’t remember which one Marianne was on— _Maybe_ the tall red one or the medium blue?

_Fuck!_

“ _What_?” He hissed, pressing a finger against his ear bud. He watched as Stuff quickly stood from behind the SUV, shooting one of Roland’s men in the arm. He could hear her voice both through the ear bud and from below. He looked over his shoulder, when he heard a noise, seeing Alice’s knife thrown near him and seeing the woman bounce away. He couldn’t think about Alice or how she knew about his past failures. He couldn’t! Right now he had to get to—

“ _They have Marianne!_ ”

Bog’s blood ran cold.

** Twenty Minutes Later **

** [SUV]**

** [Streets of Brooklyn, Exact Location: Unknown]**

“You must _really_ want a repeat of last time.” Marianne sneered at Rory through the rearview mirror, struggling against the rope tied tightly around her wrists. She hissed as her wiggling caused her leg wound to graze against the leather of the car. She felt small drops of blood spill down her leg, causing her to lean forward and inspect the wound. Her gaze flickered to Lisa — whose name was actually Kim —, who was driving this unfortunate vehicle. She recognized her now, Rory’s girlfriend and not-so-recent purchase of The Knights. Marianne had only met her once before in passing. Kim hadn’t stuck out, the usual look you’d expect of someone just recently being pulled out of one hell and thrown into another. The only difference between Kim and herself was that Kim _enjoyed_ what she was forced to do; Marianne wanted nothing but to run from it.

Kim and Rory were perfect together; both different kinds of fucked up that _worked_. They were dangerous alone and Marianne didn’t even want to think of what they were capable of together.

“There won’t be a repeat of last time,” Rory tilted the gun in his palms, looking over his shoulder towards her, “because at the end of this car ride, you’re no longer _our_ problem.”

Marianne stilled in her bindings, her breath caught in her throat and her eyes widened.

Rory took notice and smirked, “Oh, _yes_. Roland has been looking forward to this ‘anniversary gift’ you promised him.”

Marianne bit her lip, looking out the tinted window for something — _someone_ — to realize what was happening in this car. But the streets were bare, save for a few pedestrians who were walking home drunk or high, a few prostitutes on the arms of wealth men and women. Just people who were happy in their own small, little worlds.

 _They were lucky_ , Marianne mused, **_are_** _lucky_.

Her ear twitched as the sound of water hit the roof of the car. Soon the streets of Brooklyn were caught in a storm, Marianne in the middle of it. She listened as Rory spoke to Kim about what they think Roland would offer for her returned, _unharmed_.

She wanted to cry.

_How am I going to make it out of this one?_

Marianne deflated against the car door, leaning the side of her forehead against the window.


	7. Running in Circles (Part Two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter Warning: Mentions of sexual abuse and physical abuse [not going into detail], gore and mention of suicide.]

****2:24 PM  
              [SUV]  
             [Tennessee State Line]

Marianne groaned, head pounding as she struggled to push herself into a seated position. She tiredly blinked out the window, seeing the ‘Welcome to Tennessee’ sign go by in a flash. She hung her head, leaning her shoulder against the side of the leather seat and shifting her legs up to her chest to take a look at her wound.

Even if it was a flesh wound, it was better than what she endured with during her last confrontation with Rory. When she had passed out around 4 AM, her wound was still oozing a bit of blood. She was relieved to see, and feel, that the blood had long dried, along with her blood stained pant leg.

Marianne pressed her good leg against the adjacent car door, using her strength to push her back until she was leaning against the car door behind herself. 

Rory and Kim were unusually silent, and when Marianne finally noticed why, she saw a small opening. Rory’s had let his chair lean back to take a nap as Kim continued driving with tired, irritated bloodshot eyes.

The wheels were already spinning in Marianne head.  
  
‘Work ahead’ road signs littered both sides of the roads, cones soon following as they entered the road construction area. Marianne scanned the area, holding back a cry of relief when she saw that the workers were out today and were scattered around the road, doing individual tasks for the road expansion.

This was her chance — maybe her only chance.

She looked back at Rory, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest as she thought out her plan.

She already knew there was no way of getting out of here unscathed; but she’d rather die than become Roland Knight’s property again. He was a sadistic man before she got on his bad sign and earned her fair share of scars behind closed doors. God only knows what he might to do her now.  
  
He might put her out on display, give the men a round with Roland's misbehaved playtoy.  
  
Marianne's gaze darkened, eyes shifting away from Rory to her lap.  
  
She remembered coming back from a hit one night to another bought teenager. She had reminded Marianne of herself, before she gave in. She had been a spitfire, refusing to break no matter how many men came into her cell and had their way with her. The teenager fought with every last breath she could until one day she ended her life on her own terms.  
  
Marianne had learned her name the day after, Victoria Cox. She tried searching for her parents after she was free from the Knights but Victoria had been a foster child. Her mother died during a hit-and-run in the middle of the day in Irvine, California. The father had disappeared a few nights after, distraught and confused, and hasn't been found.   
  
Victoria was only 10 when taken to a group home and 16 when nabbed while walking home from a friends house at night.

Marianne took a few silent, deep breaths, pushing those thoughts from her mind; as quietly as she could, she shifted forward. She made sure not to appear in the rear-view mirror, ducking as she slowly wiggled her arms under her rear. Rory’s chair blocked a way for her to move her legs easily; instead, tucking her good leg through her arms (while carefully not disrupting Rory’s sleep) before slowly easing her wounded leg through.

She bit back the curses and hisses of pain, having endured fair more than a measly flesh wound while out on the job. She examined the rope, quickly finding an end hidden against her left wrist. She used her tongue and teeth to worm through the rope before biting down on the edge and pulling. Her right hand was free first, keeping her left hand bound around the rope. She saw a ‘End Construction in 1500FT’ sign and looked toward Rory as she flipped her right hand around the edge of the rope, pulling on it until she had a good grip on the rope. She didn’t spot the gun anywhere, his hands resting on his chest and legs stretched forward. Her eyes flickered towards Kim, hardening her gaze as another ‘End Construction’ (1000FT) sign passed. 

 _Now or never._

She moved quickly, moving the rope around Kim’s headrest and digging the rope into her neck. The car quickly swerved, Rory instantly waking and getting a swift kick to the side of the face before he sat up. Marianne heard a satisfying crack when Rory’s head hit against the car door, rendering him unconscious and allowing Marianne to focus her efforts on Kim.

“Stop the car.” Marianne hissed, using her weight to pull the rope closer to herself, watching a few strips of blood appear on the rope as Kim continued to struggle. Kim continued to choke, the car swerving from lane to lane, bumping to signs and orange cones before slamming into an Asphalt Paver.

Marianne nose was surely broken, but she couldn’t seem to care as she stumbled out of the wreckage of the car and saw an impaled Kim hunching over the steering wheel, dead. She took a shaky breath, wiping from blood from under her nose and mouth, smearing it along her cheek before letting her hand fall to her side and spit some out. She heard shouting from behind her at a distance. She was ready to turn and run towards them, but a loud bang—followed by another and another—sounded from the car. Marianna stumbled to the side, moving backwards in the process. She got a glimpse of the passenger car door shifting as another bang sounded. Marianne groaned, seeing her wish of Rory either staying unconscious or dying were swashed as the man kicked the door open and fell out.

Marianne clenched her fists, licking over her top teeth. Her blood tasted metallic, like copper pennies mixed with sangria. It both fueled her rage to finish this fight, _once and for all_ , and made her want to turn around to vomit. Her head spun as Rory stood on wobbly legs, placing his hand on the opened car door to help balance himself. Marianne cursed, placing a hand on her head and stumbling backwards. 

“ _You_ ,” Rory coughed, licking his lips and spitting out blood as he struggled to continue speaking, “you think you can just… just do _that_ and walk… away?” The gun that Marianne had also wished had disappeared or been stuck in the wreckage was pulling from the car door bottom shelf _and_ aimed straight at Marianne. 

“What—” Marianne hissed as she took a misstep, falling onto her side. Rocks and broken concrete dug into her flesh, eliciting new wounds and causing previous ones to open. “What happened to… delivering me… _unharmed_?”

Rory staggered forward, nearly screaming a curse every time he put his full weight on his right leg, gun still shakily trained on her form, “You… fucking bitch. You really… you really think after this stunt—after this unneeded bullshit—I would give you to Roland… _unharmed_?”

Marianne shut her eyes, people screaming from far away causing her head to feel like it was splitting open. Rory cocked his gun, flashing a sadistic smirk with a parting comment as he took a few more steps forward, only two feet apart from the pained woman.

“I’m going to… have _fun_ with you, _tough girl_.” 

Everything moved in slow motion. One second, she was clutching her head in pain and the next she shot her leg toward his right leg, effectively knocking him off balance. She leaned up, grabbing his collar before he fell backwards and pulled him towards her. She laid back, using her legs to kick his lower body over her. He landed with an ‘ _oof_ ’ and a loud groan, the gun falling from his grip and landing a few feet away.

Marianne scrambled for it, kicking her legs off the broken cement and lunging for the gun, quickly twisting her body around and holding it point-blank to Rory’s face.

“I… I think you forgot something… _pretty boy_ …” Marianne took a deep breath, a smile forcing its way on her lips despite the immense pain and stress she was currently in, “Marianne Fairfield is a legend amongst The Knight’s _for a reason_.”

She took a step forward, leaning down and pressing the barrel of the gun to Rory’s temple. “I hope Roland finds you, asshole, because you’re going to be my messenger.”

“I… I won’t do **_anything_** for you… _bitch_.” 

Marianne’s smile turned into an impish, cocky smirk, “I was hoping you’d say that.” 

And with that, she pulled the trigger. Marianne let out a breath, forcing herself to stand with a groan of pain and a stagger. She caught herself, thankfully, before she fell, her free hand grabbing onto a pole sticking up from the ground. Her arm wrapped around the pole, her body sagging against it before she took a look at the gun in her palms.

The workers had since cleared the area, and Marianne guessed that either cops, state troopers or both would appear soon and try to detain her. 

Her face was blank as she continued to stare down at the gun. Soon, her eyes shifted to Rory — a man who, under difference circumstances — deserved better than the death she had given him. But, that was the thing with Roland and The Knights. 

You either played by their rules or you died.

Marianne didn’t think she had much to live for at this point in her life—whatever life she was even living at this point. Hiding, running, constantly being paranoid with confused and conflicted feelings about the past 28 years wasn’t much of a life.

Her hand gripped the gun tighter as she pushed herself off the pole. 

She needed to run if she didn’t want to be caught.

She wouldn’t know if Bog would understand, or if her contract with the BAU would still be valid after what she’d just done (and was doing), but she valued being free more than anything.

She knew how to survive, the last year and a half was proof enough.

With another pitied look at Rory, and a second glance at Kim to confirm the woman was dead, Marianne headed off into the tree’s.

* * *

**4: 00 PM             **

** [Ms. Green’s Warehouse]  
             [Brooklyn, New York]**

_Ah shouldn’t have let ‘er outta me sight._

Bog stared down at the dried pool of blood – _Marianne’s blood_ – that set on the concrete at the top of the red brick building Bog had left her on. There were two other buildings such as this around the warehouse, each holding more of whatever Ms. Green had been selling to the Knights.

_I should’a just let her come with me._

In the blue building next to the one he stood upon, they found underground cells with both men and women – ages ranging from preteens to young adults – caged and chained to the walls. Two cages had been opened, one he could only assume had been the young teenager who he had fought against earlier, Alice Day. There had been no sign of her since their little fight. He wouldn’t have believed it happened himself if she hadn’t left her pocket knife behind. 

_Where the hell could she be?_

He pulled the knife from his pocket, twisting his wrist to release the knife hidden in the hilt. He had examined this contraption for the past fourteen hours, hoping to piece together something he was missing.

“Bog.” Stuff’s voice broke through his thoughts, her voice tired and raw. She walked up beside him, staring down at the pool of dried blood. The two friends stood in silence, the usually noisy streets of Brooklyn were silent. 

It calmed Bog, oddly enough. He was use to the busy streets of Quantico, never quite peaceful, even in the dead of night. It was the middle of the day in Brooklyn and Bog couldn’t hear a single car, a single honk, a single skid of tires. It was oddly satisfying, but also nerve racking. It was the calm before the storm, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t terrified of what this storm might be bringing this time.

“Rory’s no longer held in Lee.” Stuff crossed her arms, shutting her eyes with a sigh, “I’m pretty sure Roland paid a few guards off, but we can’t find them—” 

“Not. _Acceptable_.” Bog hissed, twirling the blade between his fingers. “We… we promised Marianne she’d be _safe_ — we’ve a _contract_ —”

“ _Had_.” Stuff corrected, narrowing her eyes up at Bog with a tilt of her head. “We can’t protect her anymore—”

“ _You_ put’er life at risk, Steph!” Bog flipped the knife closed, clutching it in his palm as he growled. “She was _safe_. She was **_free_**. She was—” 

“Going to be captured by The Knights _no matter what_.” Stuff didn’t flinch, raising a brow at Bog’s outburst. “You knew from the beginning that this wasn’t going to have a pretty outcome.” 

Never had Bog stood in such an awkward silence with his boss—his friend—before. The air around them was static, filled with anger and friction. Bog’s eyes trailed back to the ground, seeing a pair of shoe prints leading towards the roof exit. All he felt was anger—that’s all he could feel at this point. He made a promise to Marianne, to be by her side, keep and protect her from Roland.

Alice’s words played in his mind: _How do you expect to save Marianne if you couldn’t even protect your own fiancée?_

He was a bloody fool to believe he could have saved her.

His phone pulled him from his thoughts, the iPhone’s preset ringtone filling the air. Stuff still stood next to him, her hard gaze unwavering.

“ _Ah **never**  wanted ta du **this**_.” He leaned down, hissing between his teeth. “ _Yer_ tha one who needed this.” With that, Bog pulled out his phone, trading it with the knife as he walked towards the roof’s exit. He frowned at the unknown number, noticing the area code didn’t match anyone he knew. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself before he answered as he entered back into the building.

“Supervisory Special Agent Boggart King,” Bog sounded pleasant enough, “what can Ah help ye with?” 

“ _Bog?_ ”

Bog stilled, mouth pressed down in a hard frown as his fingers gripped his phone tightly.

“ _Bog… we need’a talk._ ”

“Ah have _nuthin’_ ta say to you, father.” Bog spat, shutting his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. “How’d ye even get this number? I told ma—”

“ _We can argue later, son._ ” Briar sighed against the receiver. “ _Right now, ye need my help._ ”

“I dun _need_ —”

“ _Marianne is missing—again—because of the incompetence of the unit chief,_ ” Briar’s words shocked Bog — it was because of _Stuff’s_ incompetence, not _Bog’s_. He wasn’t used to hearing that is _wasn’t_ his fault. “ _Ah know enough abou’tha case to lend a hand… and from what Ah’ve heard from ye section chief… ye **need** someone who knows this case as well as Ah du._ ”

Bog frowned, “Ah’m guessing ye’ve already landed?”

“ _Aye_.”

Bog groaned, “Kennedy?” 

“ _Aye_.”

“Ah’ll be there soon.”


	8. Coming up Tails (Part Two)

** 4:55 PM **

** [John F. Kennedy International Airport]**

** [New York, NY]** 

Bog leaned back against the hood of his car, watching the busy parking garage with curiously guarded eyes. He cradled a _Dunkin’ Donuts Hazelnut Coffee_ against his chest, his other hand absently thumbing the switchblade in his pocket. Although he looked like he had just shot out of a grave, tired, dirty, bruised and even a bit bloody, he had never felt more awake.

Briar William King – his asshole father – has returned to the United States after _twenty-three years_.

Bog snorted, eyeing his coffee before chugging more of it down. He cringed as the wet heat of the coffee glided down his throat.

His mother was going to commit murder if she got wind of Briar making an appearance back in Bog’s life – even if it was to help with a case he had originally been on. Hell, his mother would probably kill him too since he hadn’t given her a warning.

 _Or seriously maim me_ , Bog thought with a humorless snort, pulling his hand from his pocket to brush through his knotted wavy hair. He groaned as his fingers got caught in a knot before turning to his car and setting his coffee down on the hood. He pulled out a worn down rubber band from his pocket, sticking it between his teeth as he gathered his hair in a bun. He tied the hair into a messy, unkempt bun. 

“Could’na have parked any farther?”

Bog leaned forward on the hood, taking hold of his coffee as he steeled himself.

“I could’a,” Bog commented coldly, turning his head towards his father as he stopped at the side of the hood, “but Ah’m inna rush.”

Briar hummed and nodded his head, looking off towards the middle of the garage as Bog looked him over. 

The older man had a duffle bag thrown over his shoulder, his auburn hair tied back into a ponytail and haunting pale blue eyes still as piercing and sunk in as the last time father and son were standing face to face. Briar hadn't changed in the past twenty-three years, still in tip-top shape, tall and buff and (as his Aunt Plum would say) his aura giving off that ‘asshole’ vibe. The only difference Bog was able to see were two new scars, one that cut through his father’s left eyebrow and the other over his father's left bare shoulder and a wedding rings, precisely the one his mother had bought him and his own, hanging from his neck on a darkened chain.

Bog swallowed his comment, literally, with taking another long sip of the scolding hot coffee. The burning in his throat kept his mind off of his father for a few good seconds before a piece of paper was hanging some ways from his face. Bog set his coffee down, taking the paper with a raised brow as his father headed towards the passenger door.

“Let us get goin’.”

Bog frowned, looking over at his father with a raised brow before gazing down at the yellow post-it note. The agent came face to face with a hastily written down address, one he had read many, many times throughout the past three years.

“Why?” Was all Bog managed to say, stuffing the paper in the same pocket as the switchblade. He pulled his keys out as he grabbed his coffee, unlocking the doors to allow his father to throw his duffle bag in the back.

“Ye’ll know when we get there.” The elder King grunted, throwing his bag in the back. 

“W— _we_?” Bog sputtered, glaring at this father over the hood. “Ye aren't an Agent anymore—”

“And ye need someone who isn't bound by ta law.” Briar pulled open the passenger door, “Naw, come on. She’s expectin’ us.” 

“ _She_?”

** 6:29 PM **

** [Fairfield Residence]**

** [Forest Hills Gardens, Queens, NY]** 

“We shouldn’t have come’ere,” Bog parked the car next to the edge of the driveway, staring up at the two story home that had toys scattered about the front yard, “they don’even know that she’s alive.”

“Marianne’s parents may‘ave given up on findin’ ‘er…” Briar unlocked his door, stepping out of the SUV as a woman with sun kissed hair and bright, shimmering blue eyes stepped out onto the wraparound porch. Bog immediately recognized her as Marianne’s younger sister, Dawn. Marianne spoke little of her younger sibling, her memory of the blonde nearly non-existent (save for what was on the tape she carried with her). Bog found himself sliding out of the car, his eyes glued to Dawn, as he walked around the car and stood next to his father.

 “…but her sister has not.” Briar finished, clapping Bog on the shoulder before heading up the pathway to the porch. Bog followed silently, taking in his surroundings.

It looked so… _normal_. Dawn looked so normal. Her life looked so normal. She obviously had children, and he read in one of the files he had recently been reading through that Dawn had married her college sweetheart, Sunny Day, a few months after they graduated. 

He couldn’t help but wonder if Marianne had been by here before—wondering what her life would have been like if she hadn’t been kidnapped. Would she have kids? A significant other? Would she have gone to college? What would she have studied? What career would she have chosen? Would she be happier as a stay-at-home mother? Did she even want kids? Did she even want this kind of life? Or would she like to live in an apartment? Or would she want a townhouse? Would she want pets? Dogs? Cats? Fish? Sugar gliders? Would she have to get a hypoallergenic pet? Would she—

“Agent King.” The blonde sweetly smiled up at Briar before launching towards him, pulling the large Scotsman into a bear hug. He watched as a smile broke his father’s usual blank expression, his own arms wrapping around the petit woman before spinning her in the air.

He laughed, setting the blonde down on her feet before taking a step back to look over her, “Look a’ _ye_! Ms. Dawny, all grown up.”

“It’s _Mrs_. Dawny now.” Dawn smiled proudly, placing her hands on her hips.

Bog was in the Twilight Zone. 

What the _fuck_ was _this_?

Dawny?

Hugs? 

Smiling?

 _Laughing_?

The _fuck_?

Bog cleared his throat, eyeing his father as he shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Ah, yes,” Briar’s smile turned mocking — _ah, there the devil is_ — as he introduced his son, “Dawn, this’ me son—” 

“Bog!” Dawn gapped up at him, smile as bright as the sun, as she held her hand out. Bog swallowed and hesitantly shook her hand. “It’s nice to finally met you! I remember Briar talking about you when he was…”

Bog forced a smile — ultimately failing —, the words hanging in the air around them, as he shoved his hand back in his pocket. 

“That’s what we’re here about.” Bog looked down at Dawn with thin lips. “Marianne… she’s been found. She’s been in the FBI’s care for the past few months, helping us take down the man who has held her captive since she was a teenager – Roland Knight. He seemed to have… to have, uhh…” Bog ducked his head down as Dawn’s face morphed from relief and joy to worry and dread, her face paling at what Bog was starting to imply.

Briar continued for him, “A woman, who we assume was close to Roland, was able to capture Marianne early this morning during an attempted raid on a stronghold of his. She and an escaped inmate escaped the scene with her and we haven’t—” 

The preset iPhone ringtone sang between the three. Bog reached for his phone, quickly excusing himself as he stepped off the porch and looked down at his phone.

 _Steph_.

He answered the call with a sigh, “Yeah?”

“ _Marianne was spotted — at least someone of her description — entered Tennessee. Rory was found at the scene, shot multiple times, and so was the woman who was working with him. We still haven’t gotten a positive I.D. on the woman, but she seemed to have a close connection to Rory from the tattoo she has on her back._ ”

“Tennessee…” Bog mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck as his eye darted from toy to toy on the front porch.

“ _We’re pretty sure she’s traveling on foot now. There was no gun found at the scene—she’s most definitely armed and dangerous if that’s the case. She somehow crashed the car they were using into a construction zone. The few workers that hid instead of running watched Marianne and Rory fight. They say she was wounded and staggered off. They didn’t feel safe so they continued to hide until the local PD arrived._

“ _We’re heading to Kennedy now to get on the jet… where even are you?_ ”

“I’m in Queens.” Bog mumbled, looking over his shoulder towards the two on the porch. Steph continued speaking in the background as his mind continued to spiral. Tennessee… why did that sound familiar? Marianne never spoke about Tennessee — he _would_ remember if she had — but the state came up in her case files multiple times. It wasn’t where she was taken—not even the same state.

The mothers name always came up with the state… a property her family owned… it was passed down to her once she had Marianne… it became a vacation home— 

Bog cursed loudly with the shake of his head, “I’ll be in Kennedy before eight. I know where she is.” 

He quickly ended the call, jogging back onto the porch, “Dawn! Yer mum owns a piece’a land in Tennessee, yea?”

Dawn nodded with tear filled eyes, “Y— yeah, but we haven’t been back since Marianne was taken. My mom couldn’t bear to go back but she couldn’t bring herself to sell it either.”

“Yer sister is safe fer the time being,” Bog pulled out his keys and looked at Briar, “but we need’a leave if we wanna get to her before Roland.”


End file.
